Part 12

While yet I gazed on Soutra's fell, A sight appeared (I live and tell!), Strange, ominous, and yet obscure, But fate has wrought the vision sure; Too soon explained, it bodes no good, But desolation marks, and blood, I saw at once in full career Equestrian troops dire-armed appear, Descending swift the mountains steep No earthly steed could footstep keep; Yet many hundreds were their might. The glitt'ring stars revealed the sight-- Lightnings, forbidding to conceal, Burst, 'midst drawn swords and helmets' steel. On me when burst their dreadful gleam Faint my sunk soul emits a scream; And Walter Selby thus began-- (Walter still less, or more than man) Shouting till every echo round The mountain nymphs appalled resound; "Saw ever man such gallant sight? A thousand steeds on Soutra's height, Its fierce descent--in martial pride A thousand riders stem its side, With managed pride and daring front! What mortal force shall bide their brunt? See how they gallop down yon rock!-- What mortal eye can bear the shock? The roe of Soutra's lightest bound Shrinks from the delvy deep profound, Where not the falcon strains her flight Above the eagled eyrey's height. O, for a steed so sure and swift That might me with these horsemen lift-- These airy knights! My wanton brown, Famed far and wide for fleet renown, That darts o'er Derwent like a bird, Matched with such palfrey and its lord With wonder froze, its progress slow, Would think the Derwent ceased to flow. Ne'er gossamer in summer race So swift, so sylphy held the chace. Alarm in every village dwells, For we all know what this foretells-- A battle lost, a ruined cause. I heard my father say there was Then seen on dread Helvellyn's side An armed host like this to ride: Yet difference marked--beneath a crown The eye of royalty there frowns; A regal glaive, like mailed Mars, That streams a meteor thro' the wars, Points at their head to Marston Moor, Soon to be drenched with British gore. On those whose standard new unfurls, Menace the coronets of earls; The wode weird sisters waft each count, And thanes ride wild at their surmount. "Now Heav'n's right hand protect us!" cried The dame that shares stern Wilton's pride; (Once bride of Grey, for beauty famed, And oft for boast of lineage named; But now her blood, by age grown cold, Yet tumult's in her mortal mould); "What evils shall I yet sustain! Portentous scene--terrific train! What follows these?" with instant breath The pedlar cries; "misfortune--death: To many, misery--death, to some-- Some who are present, sure will come Death sudden, early--" "Cease thy croak, Thou northern raven," Walter spoke; "If they are phantoms, let them pass-- For men of mist what care e'er was In constant souls; if flesh and bone, (Such by their bearing are alone This gallant band) as I believe, As such I greet them and receive, Good, gallant soldiers for our King-- For them shall then the welkin ring." No sooner said, but seized his horn; Around the mountain echoes borne Resounds the bugle far and wide. The spectred steedmen then descried A mile's full quarter, seem'd to halt; The youth again, with lips at fault, Seized mad the ill-directed horn; His hand the pedlar seized with scorn; "Unhallowed, dare not thus deride What heaven's all pregnant powers confide, For man's instruction is this vision sent;" (With that the bugle from his hand he rent); "Young gentleman, be wise, be ruled:" The lost musician stood in silence school'd. The shadowy troops with sword and lance, And martial pride elate, advance; Within a hundred yards they seem; Terrific now their hauberks gleam-- As dazzling more than mortal sight. Yet 'midst my trance of wild affright, I marked them, as along they went, And living forms as such they meant, I then imagined that I knew Of many men in dreadful hue-- Death's pale discolour--doomed the ghost to yield, Instance exact to perish in the field, Or in cold blood to wait their doom-- The scaffold's fate--without a tomb; Pride of the Stuart's strength, nor unallied, In blood, that Brunswick's happier host defied; The Maxwells, Boyds, Drummonds, and Gordons famed, Scots, Ogilvies, Camerons, Foresters, high named! One youth there was--for now the battle raged, A band more powerful, vengeance nigh presaged, A fierce assault proclaims the adverse power-- One youth there was, amidst destruction's lour, Turned still the stream and every foe defied, Oft raised his arm, and oft in blood 'twas dyed; And, as his faint companions fell, he stood Erect in arms, and drenched in hostile blood; At last his prowess sunk--a falchion keen Light' on his helmet, and burst the warrior's screen; Then, as he fell, a visage too well known Burst on my view, with death's stern front though prone, 'Twas Selby's self--his dread eidolon's form, Like Brutus threatened in Philippi's storm. Selby looked thunderstruck with wild amaze, But mortal eye could not abide the gaze. He sunk, forestalled the agonies of death, And on the ground suspended was his breath; His horn then sounds the melody of woe, Some few sad notes that reach the issue's flow, E're the seer's hand had checked his purpose bold; Such notes the furies whilsom did unfold, When Plato gave to Proserpine his hand, And love stood awed, nor dared his force withstand The tyrant's force--we wait all frenzied o'er, And Selby yet alive, as dead, deplore.

All this was horror, but how faint the view To what too soon all real must ensue, Shall I relate how sunk each noble name? Too well 'tis known in blasts of hideous fame; In prose 'tis written, and in verse 'tis strung, And songs funereal the dire dirge have sung. The ruined castle, and the prostrate hall, The exile's wand'ring, and the hero's fall; Sons unattainted, sires suspicion haunts, And childless sires their offspring's exit taunts; Where such is heard in lamentation's air, And more sunk deep in silence of despair; Feelings of family perpetual burn, And tears incessant fill the nation's urn. Such was the scene ere dire Culloden's plain The northern ravens glutted with the slain; Nor rested then, for in the ebon car The dire Erynnis of fell civil war Held yoked her dark steeds from the fatal field, A part succeeded reckless yet to yield, With colours flying, and the pibroch's sound, As if they scorned the violated ground, As vengeance filled their bosoms fraught with ire, As if they sought a respite to retire, On adverse fortune scorned to waste their strength, But thought calamity would reach its length; Then, to return--but nobler thoughts evince, Convinced by reason they salute their Prince, Convinced, revere the majesty of laws, Nor wreck their fortunes in a desperate cause; 'Twas thus each fought with still undaunted heart, And each 'twas thought maintained the better part.

Now civil war has spent its savage rage, Say, shall we now for anarchy engage? Exhaust all purpose of heaven-granted life, For no one purpose but the love of strife. Rather than that, let's seek the pristine Cain, Or rather seek with Lamech's force to reign, Lamech, than Cain, the seven times told more curs'd, For even Cain was not yet found the worst. Then check this brutal rage, while yet there's power, While yet the monster's something to devour; While not by treason borne, to ruin hurled, Stands in its frame the firm majestic world.

Another curious and interesting phenomenon was once observed on Souter Fell, somewhat differing from that already described, though probably resulting from the same combined causes. "One summer evening, in the year 1743, the servant of Mr. Wren, of Wilton Hall, was sitting at the door with his master, when they both saw the figure of a man with a dog, pursuing some horses along the mountain side, a place so steep that a horse could scarcely keep his footing upon it. These visionary forms appeared to run at an amazing pace, till they got out of sight at the lower end of the Fell. Mr. Wren and his servant next morning ascended the steep mountain, expecting to find the man dead, being persuaded he must be killed in galloping at so furious a rate; but to their surprise, they found not a shoe, nor even any vestige whatever of man, dog, or horse."[12] This story they sometime concealed; at length, however, they ventured to relate it, and were (as might be expected), heartily laughed at.

Nearly allied to this is another atmospheric phenomenon, occasionally seen among the mountains, though of rare occurrence. It consists of an aërial figure, depicted on a dense or misty atmosphere, not unfrequently assuming a grotesque or highly magnified appearance. The same phenomenon has been observed amongst the Scotch mountains. Mr. Smith, M.P. for Norwich, witnessed it in ascending Ben Nevis. On the crown of that mountain there is a crater-like hollow, in which was a misty vapour. In the midst of this appeared a human figure in motion. Mr. Smith held up his hands, and the figure did the same.[13]

This appearance is most rationally explained on the principles of refraction and reflection, the shadowy form being no other than the image of a reality, favourably posited with relation to the refracting medium and the observer's eye. This man-in-the-mist was doubtless the shadow of the real man, created by his coming between the vapour and the sun; yet perhaps the aërial beings that have been said to people the Highland mountains, may be traced to some such origin.

The appearance of the Spectre of the Broken, an aërial figure which is sometimes seen amongst the Hartz mountains of Hanover, may be accounted for in the same manner. The following is an interesting account of this phenomenon by M. Hane:--"Having ascended the Broken Mountain," says he, "for the thirtieth time, I was at length so fortunate as to have the pleasure of seeing this phenomenon. The sun rose about four o'clock, and the atmosphere being quite serene towards the east, its rays could pass without any obstruction over the Heinrichshöhe mountain. In the south-west, however, towards the mountain Achtermannshöhe, a brisk west wind carried before it thin transparent vapours. About a quarter-past four I looked round, to see whether the atmosphere would permit me to have a free prospect to the south-west, when I observed, at a very great distance towards the Achtermannshöhe, a human figure of a monstrous size! A violent gust of wind having almost carried away my hat, I clapped my hand to it: and in moving my arm towards my head, the colossal figure did the same.

"The pleasure which I felt at this discovery can hardly be described; for I had already walked many a weary step in the hope of seeing this shadowy image, without being able to gratify my curiosity. I immediately made another movement, by bending my body, and the colossal figure before me repeated it. I was desirous of doing the same thing once more, but my colossus had vanished. I remained in the same position, waiting to see whether it would return; and in a few minutes it again made its appearance on the Achtermannshöhe. I then called the landlord of the neighbouring inn, and having both taken the position which I had taken alone, we looked towards the Achtermannshöhe, but did not perceive anything. We had not, however, stood long, when two such colossal figures were formed over the above eminence, which repeated their compliments, by bending their bodies as we did, after which they vanished. We retained our position, kept our eyes fixed on the spot, and in a little time the two figures again stood before us, and were joined by a third," that of a traveller who then came up and joined the party. "Every movement made by us these figures imitated; but with this difference, that the phenomenon was sometimes weak and faint, sometimes strong and well defined."[14]

[6] From Hutchinson's _History of Cumberland_, and Rev. C. C. Clarke's _One Hundred Wonders of the World_.

[7] _Lonsdale Magazine_, vol. ii. p. 313.

[8] _Coniston Hall_, by Rev. W. GRESLEY, M.A., p. 135.

[9] Hutchinson's _History of Cumberland_, p. 420, vol. i.

[10] _Westmoreland and Cumberland Illustrated_, p. 217.

[11] _Lonsdale Magazine_, vol. ii. p. 425.

[12] Clarke's _Wonders of the World_.

[13] Wilkinson's _Tours to the British Mountains_, pp. 64, 65.

[14] Clarke's _Wonders of the World_, pp. 434, 435.

RUSTIC POETS OF THE LAKE DISTRICT.

JOHN OLDLAND AND JAMIE MUCKELT.

Among the various traits of local character in the English Lake district, there is not perhaps, one more amusing than that propensity to rhyming which a number of individuals has exhibited, in all the rustic grace of native ignorance. A few instances of this nature can only be admitted within the limited compass of these pages, but they will not be without their interest to those who feel a pleasure in tracing the unassisted efforts of natural genius.

John Oldland was an inhabitant of Crosthwaite, existing about the beginning of the last century. His propensity to rhyming was such, that many of his rhymes, as they are provincially called, are still repeated by the older inhabitants of the neighbourhood. A few, and but a few of these rhymes, we shall here insert.

When he attended Ulverston market, as he generally did, he put up at the Dog, in Dalton Gate, then kept by Betty Woodburn and her husband, though now gone and forgotten. Audland, as he was called, was so much addicted to rhyming, that he did it on all occasions with various success; the following, though still remembered, is one of his clumsy attempts:--Calling one Thursday at the public-house door with some other farmers, the landlord replied in his politest manner, "Coming, Sir." On which Audland, looking up at the sign, observed:--

"This dog he runs wi' his tail to the south, But co' on the landlord, an' he'll gi' mouth."

Once when his landlady, at the Dog, had urged him to clear off a long score, which he had run up at the house, he gave her the following promissory note, which was accepted:--

"I, John Oldland, Befoar I gang hence, Owe Betty Woodburn Just six and two pence. An', Thursday come sennet, I'll pay off the auld scoar, An' wha knas but I may Spend twice as mich moar."

The smartest of John's rhymes was made on the occasion of his being put to trouble (as it is properly termed in the provincial dialect) by a lawyer, for some debt which he had incurred at Ulverston; a proof that not only poets, but all who meddle with rhyme, are poor. John repeated with emphasis--

"God mead men, An' men mead money; God mead bees, An' bees mead honey; But the D--l mead lawyers an' tornies, An' pleac'd 'em at U'ston and Daltan i' Forness."

We shall only have room to notice another of these "rustic bards." He too was a Crosthwaite man, but of a more recent date. We do not intend to insinuate that there is any predisposing cause about Crosthwaite, that inclines the inhabitants to rhyme, but it happens that we remember these two at the present moment; by an association of ideas, the one has probably conjured up the other.

Jamie Muckelt was undoubtedly the best rhymer in that part of the country; and, consequently his rhymes have been more carefully preserved than those of any other. We have room, however, for only a few specimens.

Jamie was a farmer; and once, returning from the market he had overset, or, as he called it, capsized the cart. His wife was angry, and eagerly inquired the cause of such an accident. Jamie, with that _sang froid_ for which he was so remarkable, only replied,

"Caerlessly, thou may depend-- Pooin' away at t' helter end."

A common footpath led through a field in which Jamie had a crop of pease one year. These held out a temptation, Jamie considered, to passengers to be taking tithe in kind. To prevent these depredations he fixed up a board, on which he painted or chalked the following lines:--

"Pray ye, nebbers, dunnet pull; I'll gi' ye a pey-scode when they're full. If ye it 'em when they're swash, They'll fill yer belly full o' trash."

Muckelt happened once to be at the Punch Bowl in Crosthwaite, in company with Dr. Bell. Jamie's rhyming abilities were pretty well known, and perhaps sometimes a little envied. Be that as it may, the Doctor challenged Jamie to rhyme him for a wager. Jamie, without a moment's study, produced the following stanza:--

"At your request, I'll du me best; But ya' thing I implore-- If Dr. Bell Can du as well, To trouble me no more."

The Doctor acknowledged himself outdone, and paid his forfeit.

On another occasion Jamie had staid at the Punch Bowl till he was rather top-heavy, and fell into the fire and burnt himself. The next day he went to the house to discharge his bill, and gave them, in addition to their regular charge, the following verse:--

"Thear is some men, for want o' sense, Will run ther sels to vast expense; An' I mesel, for want o' greace, Fell into t' fire an' burnt me feace."

Meeting with a friend one day, in the shambles at Kendal, he said,

"Come, nebber, let us join, If thou'll buy t' leg I'll buy t' loin; If thou'll buy t' head I'll buy t' pluck; An' we'll hev a quart at t' Dog an' Duck."

Many other instances of this rhyming propensity, through all the country, might be produced, would our limits permit.

THE HART'S-HORN TREE.

A TRADITION OF PENRITH.

Four miles from Penrith, near the road to Appleby, and in the district which, to this day, bears the name of Whinfell Forest, there formerly stood a fine oak, which bore the name of Hart's-Horn Tree, a name it acquired from a tradition to this effect. In the time of the first Robert de Clifford, about the year 1333, Edward Baliol, King of Scotland, came into Westmorland, and stayed some time with that Lord, at his castles of Appleby, Brougham, and Pendragon. During his visit they ran a stag by a single greyhound, out of Whinfell Forest to Redkirke in Scotland, and back again to the same place. Being both spent, the stag leaped over the pales, and died there; but the greyhound attempting to leap, fell, and died on the opposite side. As a memorial of this incident, the stag's horns were nailed upon a tree just by; and the dog being named Hercules, this couplet obtained currency amongst the people--

"Hercules kill'd Hart-a-grease,[15] And Hart-a-grease killed Hercules."

"Then went they down into a laund, These noble archers three; Eche of them slew a hart of greece, The best that they could see."

_Song of Adam Bell._

In course of time, it is stated, the horns became grafted, as it were, upon the tree, by reason of its bark growing over their root, and there they remained more than three centuries, till, in the year 1648, one of the branches was broken off by some of the army; and ten years afterwards, the remainder was secretly taken down by some mischievous people in the night. "So, now," says Lady Ann Clifford, in her _Diary_, "there is no part thereof remaining, the tree itself being so decayed, and the bark of it so peeled off, that it cannot last long; whereby we may see time brings to forgetfulness many memorable things in this world, be they ever so carefully preserved--for this tree, with the hart's horn in it, was a thing of much note in these parts."

In another part of the same forest, which, like many other forests in this country, as Skiddaw forest, Inglewood forest, &c., has no trace of what it has been but the name, there stood, a few years ago, three enormous oak trees, known by the name of the "Three Brothers." One of them measured thirteen yards in girth.

[15] Dr. Percy, in a note to the poem, a stanza of which is given below, explains "heart o' grease," or "greece," to mean a fat animal, from the French word _graisse_.

THE QUAKERESS BRIDE.

A TALE OF THE MOUNTAINS.

The moon shone full upon the dial of Saint Paul's, and showed the hour-pointer far advanced towards midnight, as Edward Fletcher paused for a moment to inquire the time, and then pursued his way in deep and silent meditation. At an early age, by the death of both his parents, he had been left to the care of an unmarried uncle, who, after giving him a good education, had placed him in a merchant's office, and had since enabled him to become the principal of a mercantile establishment. He had now been for two years the master of a lucrative and increasing business, and being naturally of a social disposition, he began to court the company of those of his own rank. In this way he had spent the evening, and, having accompanied some of his fair companions to their homes, he was returning to his own lodgings in a distant part of the metropolis. The warm and genial influence of Society had called into action the softer emotions of his heart, freed them from the icy fetters which long and arduous attention to business had thrown over them, and caused them again to burst forth and to roll onward in an unbroken current, bearing his thoughts to that far distant period, when, in the twilight of memory, the forms of past events are dim and indistinctly visible.

And he lingered on the recollection with a melancholy pleasure, for it was the happiest period of his existence. He was then the loved and caressed of parents who were now no more. Those joyous days were passed among the pleasant hills and valleys of Westmorland, and now he was confined among the din and bustle of the city. He remembered one fair girl, who was more than his playmate, with whom "he roamed about the braes," pulling the cowslips or the early violets; or at evening sat under the shadow of a spreading elm, telling her the stories which he had read during the day, and listening to the little hymns which her mother had taught her; but of her he knew nothing--she too, probably, was with the dead.

Then he thought of his school-days, with their mischievous tricks and their active sports, and their hard lessons, and the noble boys who were his comrades. Some of them, the gentlest and the most beloved, were also gone to their rest; and the hardy, the active, and enterprising, were pursuing their separate courses of adversity or success; many, like himself, were still bachelors, whilst others enjoyed the delights of domestic felicity in the bosoms of their families. This last subject was one on which he had often deeply pondered. Arrived at that time of life, when the enthusiasm of youth has subsided, before the indifference of age has commenced, he had long felt the solitude of his orphan state; he had been convinced that he did not move in the sphere for which Providence had designed him.